


baby, been an awful good girl (next year I could be just as good)

by EastFromEden, londongrammar



Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Smut, F/M, Light Praise Kink, NO spoilers for The Haunting of Hill House, Spanking, Stranger Things Season 2 Spoilers, ice rink shenanigans, light dom!Scott, smutmas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-03
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-10-03 13:51:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17285279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EastFromEden/pseuds/EastFromEden, https://archiveofourown.org/users/londongrammar/pseuds/londongrammar
Summary: Santa gives the best presents to the naughtiest girls (aka Tessa misbehaves and Scott takes it upon himself to teach her how to be a good girl).akaPrompt: “You’re intentionally getting under my skin so I threaten to spank you/playfully spank you and now you look like you just got banged against a wall” sex.Day 24 of smutmas, part of thegot my love to keep me warmChristmas collaboration.





	baby, been an awful good girl (next year I could be just as good)

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas Eve, everyone! This is a collaborative effort to portray the threat brought to interpersonal relationships by a lapse in judgment while Netflix binging. jk, it’s smut, smut, smut, and we hope you enjoy! 
> 
> Thank you to Cheyenne and Thérèse for looking this over with their keen eyes and to the Writers’ Guild.
> 
> We're reposting this on its own because the collab is locked and some people were asking for it. So there it is. Enjoy.

Tessa blames Montréal for the whole thing and she’s sticking to that excuse.

It’s _definitely_ Montréal’s fault, because she and Scott have always touched each other, a lot, with any pretext or no pretext at all, in every plane and corner of their bodies. They could probably map every contour, curve and dip with their eyes closed. But before they set foot in Montréal, they were never this focused on each other’s… glutei? _Lower_ lower back?

Okay. Fine. Ass.

They were never this obsessed with each other’s ass.

Come to think of it, Gadbois probably has something to do with it too. Ever since they first started training there, even before moving into the city, Marie-France would get them hyped up by slapping their chests, their backs, and their knees. At first, they had laughed it off and had shared many pointed looks when they saw Madi and Zach and Olivia and Adrian encouragingly slap each other’s butts. They had chalked it up to their weird love triangle (or rectangle), but there was definitely something to be said for peer pressure.

Then, their B2Ten mental prep team stressed the importance of them grounding each other through touch, which they already were accustomed to doing, their pre-skate hugs and training rituals that strengthened their connection having been ingrained in them for years and years. But the team insisted that they tear down any physical boundaries and trust in each other completely. That they settle on the kind of touch that calms the other, and brings everything into focus.

Then Mathieu shows them their costumes for their Prince short dance. At Autumn Classic International, she wears a short tutu dress, while Scott’s pants outline the new form of his body, his broader shoulders, the stronger arms, the sturdy thighs, and, inevitably, the gluteal muscles he’s built with Scotty Livingston’s exhausting training regime.

(Yep, definitely Scotty’s fault too.)

So she can’t be blamed, really, for running her hands over Scott’s ass during their warm up. Nerves are high and the pressure is twisting unpleasant knots in her stomach. She keeps straightening her costume, it’s new and she doesn’t feel completely comfortable in it yet — after two years, it almost feels constricting. She looks over at Scott and can see he is just as nervous as she is, the signs are unmistakable: neck scratching, chain fiddling, hands raking through his hair and rubbing together. If he didn’t have skates on his feet, she could safely bet he would be pacing all over the place.

“Stop fidgeting,” she says, putting a hand on his after he finishes his second lap around the rink.

“I’m sorry, kiddo,” he sighs. “I didn’t expect to feel like this.”

She chuckles. “Yeah, me neither.”

“I’m just gonna hold your hand, okay?” he says, covering her hand with his and squeezing softly.

“Come here,” she says, wrapping herself around him, seeking the warm comfort of his embrace. She does what she knows best, what feels achingly familiar: anchor herself to him. 

He buries his nose in her neck and she in his, breathing in each other’s scents, their heartbeats slowing down with each inhale. “We got this!” he reassures her, one hand sliding down her side and patting her ass three times in quick succession. 

And, finally, when they face away from each other to settle into their opening positions, _how_ else is she going to make sure that she’s in the exact place she needs to be before _Kiss_ starts blasting through the speakers? So she makes sure she reaches out, and runs her hands softly, and cups her palm with intent, and fully appreciates his… costume.

They win, and their sighs of relief seem to last for days. But then it’s on to the next competition, and she and the whole team decide that, in order for their perfect lines to be demonstrated and for the spirit of the hip hop and blues rhythm to be fully displayed, she needs to change costumes, ISU conservatives be damned, and wear a jumpsuit.

After that, it’s Scott’s turn, and he does _not_ play nice. During their training sessions, or after a good run-through or just to hype her up in cold, exhausting mornings, he touches her ass too. Other times it’s gentle and comforting, and other times it’s a playful, soft slap that she returns immediately, and other times it’s a series of quick pats with an excited “ _woo, baby!”_ in her ear.

One time, after a particularly successful run-through, all their elements executed to perfection, he pulls her to him excitedly and she wraps her arms around his neck, laughing breathlessly. She lowers one hand and pats him appreciatively, expecting a caress or a squeeze in return.

“Don’t get cheeky,” he says teasingly. And then his hand comes in contact with her ass in a hard slap.

This she did not expect, and she can’t control her body’s reaction. The laughter dies in her throat and she gasps, audibly. Her body jumps forward an inch, pressing up against him, feeling him. All of him. A shiver runs down her spine, and it must go right through him too, because he drops his hand immediately.

They let go of each other quickly, and begin stroking in opposite directions. When they meet back at the centre of the rink, they give each other easy, friendly smiles, and make no mention of what just transpired.

But she thinks about it that night.

And then she thinks about it again, and thinks about it twice more, until she falls asleep.

*

The butt slaps become a habit without them even noticing; they slowly slip into it like they do with everything else: the weekly dinners at each other’s places, the Netflix marathons in between training sessions, Sunday cheat days at the local ice cream parlor, and the sleepovers (and they do sleep better when they platonically share the same bed, B2Ten even has the science to back it up, so _really_ , for the sake of their success, they have no intention of stopping. Also, the spooning and the cuddles are nice).

It becomes another integral part of their little rituals. Tessa has let go of almost all her superstitions, but deep down, she knows she’s just replacing one obsession with another. And this need, this never ending desire to be close to him, to mark every single inch of him with her — her touch, her sweat, the strawberry scent of her shampoo — to melt into his body and become one… she’s not sure it’s healthier than a hidden safety pin or perfectly aligned skate guards, but she can’t help herself, _they_ can’t help themselves really. They spent way too much time relying solely on each other before, being each other’s only source of comfort and safety, being each other’s homes. They’re too far gone to even think about toning it down.

She thinks about it a lot more over the course of the next year, especially on nights when insomnia plagues her and she’s left staring at the ceiling hoping for Morpheus to lull her in his arms. The pats turn into slaps a lot more often too. They don’t talk about it, they never mention it, not even in therapy; it’s becoming another one of these things they do that can be effortlessly explained away with a ‘they’re just like that.’ But her heart drops into her stomach and her spine tingles every time he gets a little bit rougher with her. Whether it’s for comfort, as a joke, to hype each other up or to ground each other, the butt slaps work.

They keep winning competition after competition — an undefeated season, a grand slam, something they’ve never achieved before (that elusive Grand Prix Final in Marseille feels like the perfect shot of heroin that keeps them addicted to that _feeling_ ). So, clearly, the butt slaps are doing their job: helping them win and giving them a much-needed edge. The fact that she has to bring herself to orgasm after every competition now is completely irrelevant. It _works_.

And like her grandma used to say: don’t fix it if it’s not broken.

(She doesn’t want to fix it.)

*

It’s their last day in Montréal before Christmas break, before they head back to Ontario for the holidays. It’s their final chance to get some peace and to make sure their focus is razor sharp heading into the New Year, Nationals, and the most important challenge of their lives: their last Olympics. Every other team went home yesterday, but she and Scott decided to take advantage of one last day of training. Ever since they decided the second half of their free dance needed a complete overhaul, it’s been non-stop work to sort out the kinks of the new choreography and figure out every second of the finale that will hopefully take them to the gold medal.

Despite the freezing cold, Tessa leaves her car at home and walks the distance across Saint Henri to Gadbois, stopping on the way to pick up coffee for her and Scott. She’s just reached the complex when she spots Patrice loading a couple of bags in his SUV. She calls his name and he looks up with a smile.

“ _Mon chou_ , just in time.”

“You’re leaving?”

“It’s Billie’s Christmas show today, and then we’re officially home for the holidays. The office is closed, the administrators are off today too.”

She’s surprised, and it must show on her face because Patch quirks an eyebrow. “Do you want me to come back later to go through the program again?”

“No, no,” Tessa rushes to explain. “But if the custodians aren’t here and neither are you, who’s going to close the rink when we’re done?”

“You are,” Patch says as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Scott has the keys.”

He _what?_

“What? You gave Scott the keys to the rink?”

Patch furrows his brow. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Tessa is instantly reminded of that feeling of abject horror, on that day, many years ago, when Scott Moir rolled into the Ilderton rink trailed by his mother, with nary a hair on his head. Alma was mortified and Scott was… decidedly not. He was wearing a shit eating grin and looked inexplicably proud of himself (and suspiciously like the real Slim Shady).

“Do you like my new look, Tess?”

They were supposed to be at a competition in three days.

 _Judges_ would see him like this.

Little Tessa briefly wondered if he could he grow back a full head of hair in seventy-two hours, or, alternatively, how she could blackmail him into wearing a wig. Did she still have his ‘love note’ that he wrote her after he first asked her to be his girlfriend? And if so, how quickly could she make a hundred photocopies of it and threaten to mail it to all of his classmates?

“He found his father’s razor,” Alma had said in a resigned voice. “We made the mistake of leaving him alone in the house for an evening.”

Big Tessa knows, logically, that Scott is older now, and mature enough to not wreak havoc in the absence of supervisors. She also knows that Scott deserves Patch and Marie-France’s respect, but still, she sneaks a glance towards the entrance to the Sylvio Mantha arena.

Patrice, meanwhile, is oblivious to her worries. “I gotta run if I’m gonna catch the start of the show. Merry Christmas, my dear,” he says and hugs her goodbye.

Once inside, she walks down the empty hallways to the locker rooms and quickly changes into practice gear before she joins Scott on center ice. She can tell he’s already been warming up for a while: his cheeks and ears are flushed pink and the sweat beading on his brow is now slowly dripping down his neck.

“Happy to see the flow is still there,” she quips with a smile when she reaches him.

“Why would I cut my hair?” he asks, his eyebrows shooting up.

“I was just remembering some of your less… fashionable choices on that front,” she laughs.

“You listen Tessa Jane, I did not go to the trouble of letting it grow just for _you_ to tug on to then go ahead and get it cut now.”

“Sure,” she laughs. “Let’s put that on me and not your fear of getting it cut in a French speaking salon, having them misunderstand you, and ending up looking like Joan of Arc. Or, you know… your general laziness.”

“Excuse me?” he protests. “You better watch your tongue, babe, or I’m gonna put it to better use,” he tells her, hand coming down on her ass in a loud smack that echoes off the walls of the empty rink.

She doesn’t even pick up on his dirty banter, her blood runs too hot and her imagination too wild. “I’m going to go plug in the music okay?” she tells him, swallowing with difficulty.

“I’ll do it. You need to warm up properly,” he says with a grin, swatting her butt again five (five!) times in quick slaps before skating away to the boards.

Once the familiar music starts, their focus is laser sharp; they lose themselves in movement and music, but in one tiny distracted corner of her mind, Tessa can’t help but notice just how much his hands are on her ass in this new revised version of Moulin Rouge. _How_ hadn’t she caught on to that before?

Their practice runs smoothly, their two run-throughs of Moulin Rouge could not be more seamless; everything is where it should be: every note, every beat, every movement, every glide of the blade and extension of the arm is done with purpose, building up to that explosive finale. When she comes down from the final lift, she’s got chills running down from the back of her neck to her toes. This is _it_.

“This was a good way to end the year,” Scott says, wiping his face with the bottom of his shirt, letting a mouth-watering sliver of bare skin peek through. “Good job,” he says, kissing her cheekbone and patting her ass softly — again.

“If you think we’re not training while we’re home, you’re sorely mistaken,” she jokes, gulping down half of her water bottle in one go. The feel of his hand on her is burning through the stretchy material of her leggings. She feels naked.

He quirks a brow. “Who do you think booked the rink for private ice time?”

One corner of her mouth lifts up in a pointed smile. “Nepotism is good when it’s on our side, eh?”

“What nepotism?” he laughs. “The rink is literally in my backyard, I was just the first one there.”

“You mean your parents’ backyard? Cause I’m pretty sure Alma was the one who booked the ice for us,” she teases.

“Whatever, sure, it’s nepotism,” he relents with a grin. “Now, do you want to do one more run-through and do the short this time? I feel like you could use some sympathy for the devil right now.”

“The devil being you in this scenario?” she taunts him. “My, my, how highly do we think of ourselves, Moir?”

“I _am_ a man of wealth and taste,” he smirks, getting closer to her and letting his hands rest on her hips.

She shakes her head at his antics. She does love when his cockiness comes out. “I’m beat,” she admits. “I just want to go home, take a bath, and spend the rest of the night trying to watch TV with my legs elevated.”

“Home it is then,” he agrees easily. “We still have some of those premade B2Ten approved meals and three episodes of _Stranger Things_ to watch.”

She makes a face she can barely hide and pulls away a bit. “Sure,” she says, her voice getting a bit high at the end.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Okay, one, I know better than to believe women when they answer ‘nothing’ and two, you can’t lie to me for shit. So, I’ll ask again: what?”

She clears her throat. “I might have… watched the rest of the season already?” she confesses in a small voice.

“WHAT?!” 

“I’m sorry.”

“What do you mean you watched it already? Without _me_? When?”

“Listen, _you_ fell _asleep_. I was bored and it was right there!” 

He gasps. “I can’t believe you. I can’t believe you would do this to me!”

“Come on, it’s not that bad.”

“You broke the code. You broke the best friend code and you know it! We watch it together or we don’t at all, that’s the rule!”

“It’s more of a general guideline, not a code, when you think about it,” she sputters.

“Oh really? So I’ll guess we’ll revisit some other clauses of the code then? Sorry, the general guideline… Like me cooking for you for example?”

She gasps. “You wouldn’t _dare_!”

“Watch me!”

“I watched something more interesting and guess what, Bob DIES!”

He chokes. “WHAT? WHEN? WHY WOULD YOU SAY THAT TO ME?”

“You threatened to let me starve, I had to go thermonuclear on this!”

He looks _shattered._

“You spoiled me. Oh my fucking God, I can’t believe you ruined _Stranger Things_ for me and fucking spoiled me! You broke every rule in the book, every clause in the code! I can’t believe _you_ would do this to me! There is no coming back from this. How can I ever trust you again?” 

“Oh come on, aren’t you being a bit overly dramatic here?”

“You watch _Stranger Things_ without me, you break our implicit Netflix trust, you tell me Bob dies, and I’m the one being dramatic?”

“All right, listen, I’m sorry for spoiling Bob’s death for you,” she says, softly laying a hand on his chest.

“Don’t think you’re getting off that easily just by looking at me with your gorgeous green doe eyes. You watched it while I was unconscious next to you!” He pauses for a second, and he turns serious. “That’s high treason. I can’t just let this go, you know that, right?” He reaches his arm behind her, and before she can see what he’s doing, his hand lands on her ass in a resounding slap.

She yelps, her whole body jolting forward into his at the contact and she sees his eyes darken. “I’m sorry,” she gulps. “We can watch it together tonight. And you can watch _Suits_ without me if you want.”

His hands lower and cup her ass. “Is that punishment enough?”

“You know how much I love that show,” she stammers as she feels his hands squeezing her flesh. Then his right hand leaves her, and she holds her breath before it comes down again, hard against her ass.

“I know you love it,” he says, and she’s pretty sure he doesn’t mean the TV show.

“So, that’s a fair exchange, right?”

“I don’t think so. The punishment needs to fit the crime, babe,” he rasps.

“What do you have in mind?” she asks, leaning into his touch and wrapping her arms around his neck.

He rubs his nose against her. “I think you know exactly what I have in mind.”

She can feel his breath on her lips. “Scott…” she says softly. “We said we wouldn’t.” 

He leans in, pressing his open mouth against hers. “We say a lot of shit, Tess,” he breathes into her.

She relaxes in his embrace and finally surrenders her lips to his, slipping her tongue in his mouth in a well-practiced and familiar dance. It’s been so long, but it feels like yesterday and, as she melts more and more against him with each stroke and each caress, her body remembers every single detail about what it’s like to kiss Scott Moir — the warm wetness of his mouth, his sweet peppermint taste, the clean yet slightly musky scent of his sweat, the way his thumb rubs her lower lip, opening her up for him, his nose bumping against hers, his hands encasing her ribs, her hips, and both her ass cheeks.

“You’ve been a naughty girl, Tess,” he whispers in between kisses. “Santa won’t come down your chimney with presents if you don’t repent.”

“Scott,” she moans, pressing herself even closer against him as she feels his hands squeeze and let go of her ass.

“Fuck this,” he grunts into her mouth before pulling away, lacing his fingers with hers, and skating away to the boards.

Desire lingers and spreads in her veins, settling in her lower abdomen, wetness pooling in her panties. She watches him get rid of his skates in record time and then kneel in front of her to remove hers as well. He grabs her hand tighter and steers her to the changing rooms.

“I knew giving you the keys to this place would lead to shenanigans,” she laughs. “I’m getting 2013 flashbacks.”

“Oh baby, this time, there’s no one to hear us and you won’t have to be quiet,” he promises.

He presses his mouth against hers again, kissing her passionately, letting his hands wander all over as he leads her to the bench, sitting down and laying her out over his knees, pushing her leggings and panties down. Her heart hammers against her ribcage as she feels him knead her ass gently with both hands while bucking his hips just so she can feel the hardness of his length nudging between her thighs.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, his voice husky as he runs his hands all over her ass, stroking each cheek with adoration, tracing each contour, its cleft, letting his fingers graze just close enough to her center to make her squirm. “Say you’re sorry, Tess, or I’ll have to spank you.”

“I’m not sure I’m sorry right now,” she whispers coyly, cheek pressed against his thigh, one hand running down his muscled calf, nails digging in softly.

He slaps her ass once, quick and light enough for it to start to pink up. Her breath gets caught in her throat and wetness soaks her panties through.

“Are you sorry now?”

“Not if being sorry means you’ll stop,” she pants, hearing the wanton tone in her voice and feeling her face blooming with heat.

He smacks her ass harder, making her gasp, and takes note of how much he loves the pretty pink color of her skin and his handprint etched on her flesh.

“I think you’re loving this,” he says, spanking her three times, hard and quick, before massaging the skin tenderly.

“Why don’t you check for yourself?” she pleads with a moan.

He grunts and slides a hand between her legs, finding her soaking wet. He rubs her lazily, taking good care of spreading her wetness around before slowly pumping one, then two fingers inside of her. She can’t keep quiet as she moans and keens under him, feeling herself dripping all over him and not giving a single fuck.

It’s at this moment Tessa realizes she really played herself; she should have known she would react this strongly when they’ve been playing with each other and using their warm-ups as foreplay for the past year, unable to keep their hands to themselves. There’s only so much ass play she can take before she breaks down completely and tonight, this is _it_ : they’ve crossed the line so much they can’t even see it anymore.

(It isn’t the first time.)

“Spread your thighs for me,” he growls.

He pushes a third finger in, feeling her clench all around him, and then slaps her ass hard on the upward thrust, making her cry out and clamp her thighs around his hand. She wriggles on his lap, trying to press herself closer, make him go faster, soaking his pants with her arousal, and rubbing against his pulsing cock.

“I’m so close,” she moans. “Please.”

He stills his fingers, making her squirm and grunt in protest. “You want this so badly, don’t you?”

“Make me come,” she asks, desperate and unable to unless he gives her a little bit more.

He slaps her ass again, harder and harder, until her skin takes an even red tone, making her scream so loudly he’s glad they’re the only ones still there. She writhes against him, the fabric of his pants rubbing deliciously against her hardened nipples and her clit, driving her mad with want and the need for a release. She spreads as wide as she can with the grip he has on her hips, and presses her clit against his thigh. If she knows him even a little bit, his eyes are fixed there, and he’ll notice, and he’ll help her along. She only has to wait a moment until he proves her right, bringing his hand down forcefully on one cheek and then the other, and then straight down the middle, again and again, causing a tremor that starts from her clit and spreads through her whole body.

“You like that so fucking much, baby. My hand is dripping with how much you like that,” he murmurs.

“Don’t be cruel,” she pleads.

Scott chuckles and he moves her pliant body off his lap and sits her down on the wooden bench.

“Open your legs,” he orders, kneeling in front of her, kissing her calf, licking her scars, dragging his mouth toward her inner thigh, nipping at the soft clammy skin there.

“Yes,” she gasps, throwing her legs over his shoulders, hands twisting in his hair, trying to press him closer.

She is so ready for his mouth, he can probably see tremors running through her body. “You’re gonna come so fucking hard in my mouth,” he says, leaving open-mouthed kisses all around her dripping center.

“Then give it to me,” she says, tugging harder on his hair.

He sucks her into his mouth, lapping, licking her clit and plunging his tongue inside her. “You taste so sweet and wild,” he whispers against her wetness.

Her body hums with electricity and she only needs a little bit more of his skilled tongue before she can feel herself get thrown off the cliff. “Oh fuck!” she screams, clenching her thighs around his head, gushing all over him, ankles digging into his back.

“That’s it, babe, I got you,” he whispers, grabbing her thighs to keep them open as he licks her clean.

She feels him wipe his mouth on her inner thigh before he looks up at her, grinning like the cat that (literally) got the cream. “You’re so fucking good at that,” she pants.

“Now,” he smirks. “How about you put that sharp tongue of yours to better use?” he says, standing up slowly.

Her hands go to unzip his pants and he helps her take them off along with his boxers. “You asked so nicely,” she smiles, licking the tip of his cock, tasting the salty tanginess that has gathered there.

The purring tone of her voice makes his body shiver as she swallows him whole, sucking him deep and soft as his hands go to cradle her jaw and hold her hair. She moans and hums around him, letting her tongue run all over his length, gently cupping and stroking his balls, making him hiss and fist her hair tighter.

“Fuck,” he grunts, flexing his hips up to meet her mouth, forcing himself to keep his eyes open to catch hers.

Her eyes will be his downfall. She looks up at him like he’s the best toy she’s ever played with — mouth red, swollen and wet with his arousal, her hair wild and tousled like a dark halo cascading all around her. 

“I need you inside me now,” she moans around his cock, gently slowing down the movement of her mouth.

He pulls her back from his cock by tugging gently at her hair. “Tell me how you want it.”

In response, she gets up from the bench and digs her fingers into his hair, bruising her lips on his. Their tongues meet with purpose, tasting each other, getting their fill. Once upon a time she might have been embarrassed at how _little_ it embarrasses her to crave every little thing he has to offer, but that was before she had an inkling of how much he craves every bit of her, too. No one else will ever understand what it means for them to _be_ with one another, and to want to feel it all, without an ounce of regret. To take the good with the bad, the calm with the madness, the open roads with the dead ends, and to feel like they’re living for it, every second of it.

No one else will ever even come close.

He sneaks a hand underneath her thigh, as if to pull her leg up and slip inside her. But he asked her to tell him how she wants it, and that’s just what she’s going to do.

She pulls away from him, and turns around, resting one knee on the bench and bending her entire body forward. She rests her elbows on the bench too, and leans her head all the way down, touching her forehead on the back of her hands. When she speaks, her voice is loud and clear.

“As deep as you can go. Please.”

He gets his hands on her hips, pulling her ass up a little higher, then caressing over the redness that still remains. Then she feels the softness of his tongue running up and down in slow licks, his lips gently massaging her. He moves further down and licks a long line, all the way down to her clit, sucking it between his lips for as long as it takes her to let out a strangled moan. He leaves open mouthed kisses, delves his tongue inside her again, laps up the drops that slip out of her until she’s trembling, a monotonous noise sounding in her ears. It takes her a minute to realize it’s _her_ , and the noise is a delirious chant of his name and _please_ and _fuck me_ and _now._

The first stroke of his cock against her folds brings everything back into focus. She’s wet enough that he slips inside in one swift go, and then he stays still for a moment.

“Deep enough?” he asks in a choked whisper, and she realizes that for as much as he seems collected, he’s just as close to the brink as she is.

“No,” she says. “I can take more, come on.”

He pushes down gently on the small of her back, angling her ass up higher. He pulls back a bit, but not enough to slip out, and thank God because she can’t bear to lose him right now. Then he pushes in roughly, and the new angle is just right, and oh, that’s it.

“Oh, fuck _yes_ ,” she breathes.

“Yeah?” he says breathlessly.

“Yeah, go,” she says, and nods against her palms frantically, even though he can’t really see her.

“Good girl,” he says, and he thrusts forward once again.

She tries to roll back on his cock in time with his thrusts, and setting the pace is hard but they are nothing if not in absolute sync with one another’s bodies. When they do get the motion right, she moans and he grunts, but the sound turns into an almost laugh, the kind he lets out when they get an opening step sequence right and he knows the next few minutes are going to be a fucking miracle. _Knees_ , he says, and the order now means something completely different than their usual cue. She moves her knee a bit to the right, closing up a bit, making his cock snug tighter inside her.

“That’s it,” he says and slaps her ass. Only this time it isn’t a punishment, it’s a reward.

“Harder,” she moans, and he applies the request to everything he is doing right now. He wraps one arm under her waist to steady her and fucks her harder. His other hand comes down from above to spank her again, three or four or ten times until her moans come out in a loud, steady crescendo. He must be close, too, because his hand sneaks from her waist down to her clit and begins rubbing furiously. 

Time’s almost up, and she’s determined to chase the feeling to the very end. She focuses on twisting her hips against his cock, finding that sweet spot, finding it again and again until a violent shiver runs all through her spine and goes out her mouth in a loud scream. Behind her, Scott is chasing the feeling too, and while she quivers and ripples, he bends forward and comes, his mouth forming wordless cries against her back.

He slips out of her and moves to sit on the bench. She can’t find it in her to straighten her back and stand up, but she doesn’t have to. He puts his arms around her bent form and pulls her to him, places her into his lap, drawing her legs against his torso. She lets herself be held, and buries her head in his neck, breathing him in, while the tremors subside.

“I’m here,” he whispers.

He kisses her cheek, her temple, her jaw, the edge of her mouth. He can’t get enough of her even though he just had all of her. He tastes the salt of her sweat and the sweetness of her love on his tongue.

“So,” he drawls, his breathing jagged, fingers running through her tousled hair. “Wanna head home and watch _Stranger Things_?”

She chuckles. “Feed me first and add some cuddles and you got yourself a deal.”

He cups her jaw. “You drive a hard bargain,” he says, pulling her face to his and pressing his lips against hers.

“I’ll spoon you,” she says in between deep kisses.

They slip back into their street clothes, leaving their much-needed shower for when they get back to her apartment, and she watches him closely as he turns off every light, making sure everything is tidied up, and locks up the rink.

This feels so grown up. He looks so much like a coach (not at all like a Gadbois student, and maybe that’s the lynchpin of their renewed success: they’re not kids waiting to be told what to do anymore; they’re in charge). She looks at his figure in the dark, all bundled up in his Canada puffer coat, fingers playing with the rink’s glittering keys, and she catches herself thinking that this — this togetherness; them driving back home together, showering the sex off their bodies, eating dinner, and cuddling in bed while watching Netflix — could be her future if she wants it to be.

After they win the Olympics. 

This could be _their_ future.

(Don’t fix it if it’s not broken.)

*

It’s Christmas Eve, and the oven timer in the Virtue household is not cooperating.

Tessa looks anxiously at the instructions, then at the timer, then at her wall clock, and tries to figure out what’s her bracket between undercooking the thing and setting her kitchen on fire. This is supposed to be a simple, easy to prepare, light lunch recipe, but the more time ticks away, the more convinced she becomes that they’re gonna have to eat pita bread with lettuce and carrots, the only other things left in her fridge.

She is saved from these ominous thoughts by the sound of her front door bell ringing. Finally, he’s here, and she doesn’t know how many more culinary insights he’ll have, but at least she isn’t going to fight the good fight alone. She turns the oven heat down before she leaves the kitchen, superstitions and all, and rushes to the door.

“Sorry I’m late,” he says by way of greeting, walking swiftly inside. “Session ran late, then I couldn’t get a cab because of all the shoppers. It’s a mess.”

She closes the door while he takes off his jacket, toes off his sneakers, and finally turns to look at her.

“Hey.”

“Hi.”

They smile at each other, and start walking towards the entertainment area of the house.

“What time is your family dinner?”

“We said we’d get together at 5pm. Opening of presents is at 6pm, then we eat, then we watch _Bloodsport_ and _Bloodsport II_.”

“Wow. Quality time.”

“Hey, don’t disrespect JCVD. _Bloodsport_ is a holiday tradition.”

“Really? For _who_?”

“The Moir brothers. We started the tradition, and we’re making sure it stays alive.”

She plops on the couch comfortably, and nods towards the huge TV set, currently set on the Netflix title screen.

“Well, I hope you are ready for another marathon today, cause I’ve already queued up the _Haunting of Hill House_ episodes. And it’s been a while, I don’t really remember what happened where we left off so you’re gonna have to kickstart my memory.”

“Yeeeeaaahhhh. About that.”

Tessa really doesn’t like the way that sentence started. “About _what_ ,” she says with a stony expression.

“I… kinda watched the last two episodes last night. With my mom.”

“You WHAT?!”

“She was scared, T! She wanted to finish the show, but my dad wanted to go to bed and she wanted to know what happens to Theo, and if that asshole Steve…”

“Ugh, don’t spoil me!”

“...makes it to the end. That’s not a spoiler.”

“I can’t believe you watched it without me. We said we’d finish it together!” she pouts.

“Forgiveness is warm, T. Like a tear on a cheek.”

“What?”

“Oh, right, sorry, you can’t get that reference yet.”

“Argh, I’m gonna kill you for this,” she yells.

“Really? Can’t you think of something better to do?” he says with a wink.

She stares at him.

He stares right back.

**FIN**

**Author's Note:**

> Come yell at us in the comments, we love it. 
> 
> Find us at  east-from-eden  on Tumblr/ East_from_Eden  on Twitter and  promentory on Tumblr/ ultravoxing  on Twitter, if you ever want to come yell at us or chat.


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